happy solitude

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Life is life, so only tropical tangibles remain at death: words worth retaining about being in Time?

Events go by.

We may strive to be good neighbors, but we remain mostly unknown.
Little dramas of lifeworldliness frame ordinary pretense, causing my want
of solitude nearly every day.

Besides, Self interest is intrinsically worthwhile for creative kinds of enjoyment: self-differentiations, idealisms valued as such.

Wholly flourishing life is about being with well, making dramatic sense of
The Uncanniness, living graciously with the days, sustaining flexible perspect-
ivity and humanitarian ethos, flowing with Time.

Creative living requires fortitude, seeming to others maybe as mere eccentricity. But I make no apology. Savoring presence alone, phenomenal appeal of play
in highlands where we may be voyeurs of gods we divine, originating “Literature” for other lives going by, I am.

Wordy moments of reading another may make actual intimacy derivative, living tropical of inwordness.

So goes “literairity,” ultimizing actualization of one’s potential in pretenses
that may last.

I think appeals of exemplary humanity promise the best senses of humanism.
That’s a happy proteany, inquiry as literary venturing, where Self-reflectivity
in the Work becomes themagenic aspiring for engagement that’s comprehensive of conceivability, without losing appreciation for midland variability of lives that may become audience (beyond being mirrors of authorial vanity that maintain manifold humility).

Indeed, venturing protean Selformativity of comprehensive comprehension faces its finitude by turning available means of expression into singularities composing at best a narratology of Our evolving.

Yet, that is an AEros of Our humanity worth treasuring, troping how Time may be, since every word is fatedly in quote marks anyway, especially being.